What a Happier World That Would Be

May 10, 2017

Everyone else at the hostel is a hiker. They're from Louisiana and Virginia and Utah and Maryland. Each one is younger than us. I feel like we're going to be making that statement more and more in the years to come.

One of them is trying to hike the triple crown, meaning the AT, the Continental Divide Trail, and the Pacific Crest Trail in each of the next three years. Another has a wife who's back at home alone for six months. One left Utah to escape the influence of his family and the Mormon church. And one guy sits quietly in the corner and says nothing except to acknowledge that he's leaving the trail and his grandparents are coming to pick him up. We seem so square and normal.

Fun chats about hiking and biking and adventures bring us up. The fact that the rain and wind and cold all disappeared at once brings us up. Seeing Kristen's bike work the way it's supposed to brings us up. Bad news is coming somewhere down the line. It always is on a trip like this. But today we're riding high, repeating punch lines to Crazy Larry stories ("And I said, What do you mean you don't remember me? We had a spiritual experience together, man!") and mooing at the cows like a couple of damned fools.

Dennis, the first eastbound rider we've met. He left San Diego months ago and he's about a week away from the end of his trip in Washington, D.C.

One of my bike's crank bolts keeps making a creaking noise. When I see a diesel repair shop in Meadowview I stop and ask if I can borrow a hex wrench.

"Warshington state?" says an older guy with a thick mustache as he looks around for the right tool. He gives a sly little smile. "Ever' one 'round here in Virginia thinks that's the worst outta all the states."

"That's funny," I tell him. "Everyone in Washington says the same thing about Virginia."

Most people we meet now seem kind and friendly and decent. If we asked ten people at random for help, I'd guess at least nine would without thinking anything of it. The drivers give a lot of room. Most of them wave and we wave back. The pace of life out here is slow and easy and we're ratcheting down our pace to match.

Beyond the tidy little library in Hayters Gap the road turns Appalachian. Left and right, left and right, left and right it goes. The grade is steep and never eases, not even for a tenth of a mile. The white line on either side of the road crumbles away into nothing. Over the years I've learned that in this situation there are two options. Crank as hard as you can to gain one mile per hour of speed and arrive at the top wasted, or just stick in the lowest gear, take 'er easy, and forget about it.

I've made my peace with the hills. Instead of cursing and stressing I watch how the tops of the trees dance on the breeze. I notice the tiny beetles hopping into the piles of dead leaves. I look at the water in the creeks tumbling over rocks and fallen limbs and down toward the valley below with effortless ease.

We have the road all to ourselves. It's quiet and peaceful. I almost want to call it pleasant. That's a weird way to describe pedaling up a steep, 1,500 foot tall hill while covered in rivers of sweat, but there's no finer day than today to do it. And the higher we go, the more I feel strong and lean and capable. You don't get that feeling sitting at your desk or watching TV on your couch.

When I see the county line sign that marks the top of the climb, my right hand comes off the handlebar and balls into a fist and pumps up above my head a few times, as if by reflex. The sign is riddled with bullet holes. Of course it is. We're in rural America, after all.

As we eat snacks at the top, a truck passes with the window down. The driver wears a camo-patterned jacket and a camo-patterned hat. I wonder if he's going hunting or if that's what he always wears. It's probably what he always wears. We're in rural America, after all.

The next car that passes has the phrase "In God We Trust" spelled out across the back bumper in individual letters, of the kind you'd find at a hardware store so that you can put your name on your mailbox. It's the third time we've seen that in the last eight miles. But hey, we're in rural America.

The descent is borderline feral: no center line, chunks of rock and gravel and wood in the road, hairpin turns, and no barriers to keep errant drivers or riders from tumbling off the mountainside to a cinematic death.

The Elk Garden Methodist Church has been hosting traveling cyclists for forty-one years. That sounds like a long time until you consider they've been holding services as a congregation for 229 years. Thousands of riders have stayed here over the years. With us and Jerry, the ranks grow further. And so do our stomachs. Not long after we finish dinner, a group of a dozen congregation members appear with arm loads of food for their Bible study group. It's pot roast and potatoes and dinner rolls and three kinds of dessert. It would be rude to say no when offered. It would be rude to refuse seconds.

The generosity is overwhelming. We are dirty, smelly, strangers from far-off states. These people don't know us and will never see us again. We have exactly nothing to offer them. And yet we are welcomed and fed and treated as honored guests.

What if we all treated each other this way? I think to myself. What a kind, trusting world that would be. _{What a healthier world that would be}. What a happier world that would be.

It won't happen in my lifetime. I suspect it won't happen in any lifetime. But on this evening at least, I can dream.

"Have a good night," the pastor says to the three of us as the study session wraps up. "And I hope God blesses all y'alls journeys."

For today's blessings, we need look no farther than a modest church on a quiet country road in Rosedale, Virginia.

Today's ride: 34 miles (55 km)
Total: 542 miles (872 km)

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